A Letter To My Inspiration
By Vaughn Roycroft | May 18, 2020 |
To: Professor John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
The Undying Lands
Via The Grey Havens, Eriador
Dear Professor Tolkien,
I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion of this letter, but I feel a certain indebtedness and gratitude toward you. There’s a weight to these feelings that compels me to commit them to writing. Although I’ve felt them for some time, writing you about them seems like something that shouldn’t be put off. You see, back here in the mortal realm we’re experiencing a pandemic. Oh, I’m in good health, thankfully. But times like these make you realize that weighty feelings of indebtedness and gratitude shouldn’t be dawdled over.
Having said that, they are feelings that are difficult for me to fully express. Fortunately for me, writing is my best means for working things through. Unfortunately for you, this process rarely proves to be concise or tidy. I’m even having trouble figuring out where to start. I suppose I’d better go all the way back to the beginning.
The beginning is simple, really. It all starts with your stories, and my love of them. So yes, this is—in no small part—a fan letter. But as I hope you’ll come to see, it goes beyond fandom. I once wrote an essay that explains how my sixth grade teacher, Mr. Raymond, was responsible for my first reading The Hobbit, and then The Lord of the Rings, as well. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy reading fiction prior to that. But your works captured my imagination in a new and exciting way. My immersion as a boy into the story of Frodo and the One Ring, and world of Middle Earth, became central to my reading life. Which ended up making your work foundational to my adult life.
Much of how this transpired is due to the fact that The Lord of the Rings left me longing for more. Please forgive me as well for saying that works like The Smith of Wootton Major and Farmer Giles of Ham did absolutely nothing to satisfy that longing. You must remember, we’re talking about the early 1970’s, several years before the posthumous publication of The Silmarillion. I’ve often told the story of how my father, who understood my ardor, handed me a copy of Time Magazine with a consoling look. He’d folded it back to the page with your obituary. I recall the moment with such clarity. What I experienced wasn’t just sadness for the passing of an author an ocean away. It was a sort of deep grief for the loss of a creator who’d expanded my imagination as no one else had. It was enhanced by the shock of the realization that there would be no more—no new stories of Middle Earth (of course I had no way of knowing how wrong I would be about this).
It was in that moment, at the age of twelve, that I first resolved to become a storyteller. It wasn’t so much that I imagined I might further your unfinished tales of Middle Earth. I wasn’t the sort of kid with the confidence to think I’d become the next you. It’s probably more akin to the feeling you get when, after you’ve lost your father, and become a homeowner, the hot water heater invariably blows. You’ve got a wet basement, no hot water, and insufficient funds, and you realize you can’t call dad. It’s a shock. You’ve got to pull down the Readers Digest Home Repair book he gave you years before, and figure it out. That was the kind of resolve that hit me—sort of like, “Well, I guess if I want a lifetime of hot showers and leisurely baths, I’m going to have to figure this out for myself.” In those days, figuring out how to become a storyteller meant aspiring to write fiction. (I occasionally wish I’d been inspired to master the craft of plumbing instead, but that’s beside the point.)
I’m going to take a leap in time here. There was a period when my aspiration went dormant, during which I went to college, got married, and my wife and I built a successful business. But throughout this period of a little more than two decades, you and your stories, and the lessons they instill, stayed with me. They remained at my core—an element of my truest self.
Sorry, but I’m now going to touch on what I presume will be a thorny subject for you. One of the primary things that nudged my storytelling aspiration from its dormancy was the premiere of Peter Jackson’s movie versions of your stories. No, don’t worry, I’m not talking about the abomination that became The Hobbit movie trilogy (I’m probably more outraged by that debacle than you). But, flawed as they are, I think the original LOTR movies capture the essence of your storytelling. Which helped to wake that slumbering part of me. They arrived alongside a few other major life-changes, and I finally took the plunge. I went from being an aspiring storyteller to an actual one. Although it took me quite a while longer to claim the title.
Oh how often I thought of you through those early writing years. I read biographies, reread the books themselves, pondered what I loved about them, wondered what inspired you, and reread them again. Because of you (albeit indirectly), I began researching Goths and Romans. Because of you I wondered how different history would be if it had been written by the Goths rather than the Romans. Because of you I sought to build a story-world with the solidity, depth, and history of Middle Earth. Because of you I sought to define the makings of legend and to trace the origins of myth.
Because of you, my stories feature rings inscribed with oaths. Because of you I named swords, named horses, and made those swords and horses secondary heroes in my tales. Because of you I have written poems and songs and parables in the context of the history of my story-world. Because of you I have chosen names with meaning (mostly utilizing a dead language—in my case Gothic). Because of you I have always loved maps, and utilize them in my storytelling. Because of you I consider my series of stories, which is an expansive multigenerational tale set in the same world, to be my life’s work.
We’re quite different, you and I. As are our tales. I mean, there’s the obvious stuff. You’re English and I’m American. As a devout Catholic, I’m guessing you’d be less than approving of my Deism and mistrust of institutional religion. Also, I’m not particularly scholarly. Nor am I quite as much of a traditionalist as you. I never served in the armed forces, let alone during a world war.
But there are things that I see in myself that I share with you. An affinity for nature. An enormous attraction to trees. An intense curiosity about, and deeply felt connection to, history. An admiration of virtues that seem to have become quaint, like honor and duty, friendship and loyalty, and an earnest belief in a soul-mate—one with whom we’ll both spend some form of eternity. These things are imbued in our storytelling. But it’s because of you—your example and inspiration—that I ever attempted to capture such things in story.
Because of you I have found my calling. Because of you, it’s through my storytelling that I explore what it means to be human.
Because of you, here near the end of my sixth decade on earth, I have become not just a writer, but—in no small way—the man I am today.
This is the source of my debt to you. By way of repayment, I hope to one day find the sort of connection with others that you found with me—to pass this gift forward.
I will be forever grateful. Thank you.
Namárië,
Vaughn Roycroft, Storyteller
Hey WU—have you ever written to a literary hero? Living or deceased? If not, do you have anything you want or need to say? Do tell.
Vaughn Roycroft’s (he/him) teacher gave him a copy of The Hobbit in the 6th grade, sparking a lifelong passion for reading and history. After college, life intervened, and Vaughn spent twenty years building a successful business. During those years, he and his wife built a getaway cottage near their favorite shoreline, in a fashion that would make the elves of Rivendell proud. After many milestone achievements, and with the mantra ‘life’s too short,’ they left their hectic lives in the business world, moved to their little cottage, and Vaughn finally returned to writing. Now he spends his days striving to finish his epic fantasy series.
Dear Tom Bombadil….
Vaughn, your acknowledgment here is awe inspiring. It shows off your deep passion for writing. I do have a question though. Since your genre is fantasy, if it hadn’t been Tolkien who would you have written to?
Hey James, Good question. I’ve been pretty fortunate with living inspirations in the genre. Besides having written to, and receiving replies from literary heroes like (WU’s own) Juliet Marillier and Jacqueline Carey, I’ve actually subsequently had the pleasure of meeting them both. They’re as delightful and gracious as you’d expect. I’ve also exchanged emails with Robin Hobb, who has been a huge inspiration.
I guess outside of the genre, I’d write to M.M. Kaye and Barbara Tuchman, both of whom have been very influential to my work.
Thanks for your kind words… And about Tom–guess my big question for him would be, “Since you can make the one ring disappear, why didn’t you save the fellowship a whole lot of trouble and just leave it gone?”
Some say Tom’s inclusion was a mistake for that very reason, but I like to think his purpose is to show the power of the one ring can be overcome.
M.M. Kaye is an author who deserves rediscovery. As Joseph Campbell proved, epic stories are etched in our DNA. Out of fashion they may be, for now, but they will never leave us, evidence your beautiful tribute.
I can’t imagine my hero and heroine existing without the powerful inspiration of Ash and Anjuli.
Thanks Don!
I’ve not heard that name since high school!
What a beautiful tribute, Vaughn, and a fascinating look at what drives and inspires you. I haven’t gone through this exercise, but now it’s making think of how I’d approach it, and to whom I’d write.
I grew up with heroes who were musical rather than literary, and have had a couple of dream-come-true moments where I got to meet my idols and tell them what they’d meant to me. In both cases, my gushing was well received, leaving me with a pair of memorable encounters that I count among my happiest. And I shared the crushing blow of reading an obituary for one of those heroes, but consoled myself knowing I’d had that special moment of meeting him.
Also, as a person who never really got into Tolkein’s actual books, I feel relieved to find that I’m not the only one who was utterly captivated by the LOTR movies. Whew!
Thanks for an inspiring and thought-provoking read. You’re a good egg. (Egg? Great. Now I’m hungry for breakfast. Well, second breakfast anyway.)
Hey Keith, I think of you often in this regard. In fact, I mentioned you just last night. In their little “ask the Fallons” segment, Jimmy Fallon’s wife, Nancy Juvonen, was talking about first meeting and being blown away by Clarence Clemons–his kindness and enthusiasm (I guess she eventually ended up working for him). It’s wonderful to have those opportunities (even when you find yourself struggling to rein in the gushing–been there!)
I’ve so often heard people talk about the difficulty people have with Tolkien’s writing (the archaic language, the meandering and minutia), and I perfectly understand it. I think I read them before I knew anything different. So what I love about the movies is the level of accessibility they provided. And though a lot of hardcore Tolkien fans dismiss or even disdain the movies, I not only loved them, I honestly believe that they do capture the essence of the story.
Man, second breakfast is sounding pretty good right now. Perfect timing–it’s almost elevensies! Thanks much for sharing and for your kind words.
Well. You pretty much wrote the letter I would’ve written , though far more succinctly. If not for LOTR and The Chronicles of Narnia who knows what I’d be writing?
Hey Marcy, Good to know I’m not alone on this. It’s an interesting question: What *would* I be writing? I guess the foregone part of that question is that it would be something, right? So we’ve got that going for us, too.
Thanks much!
It is a sad day when the stories stop. I think reading Lillian Jackson Braun in the early 90’s instilled in me the desire to write cozy mysteries. I didn’t try until now because I didn’t think I was up for the task, but how I loved the community of Moose County, Qwilleran and his special cats and how they unraveled the puzzle of each book. They still are like a comfort food that I gravitate toward when I’m stressed out. Unfortunately, Lillian Jackson Braun died in 2011 and with her, the series ended with no real end. It’s like the characters are stuck frozen in time, and sadly, the last book ended with the characters in not the best place. :(
Hey Lara! That’s so sad about Braun’s characters being left like that! It’s something that honestly worries me–not finishing the story I already have mapped out and getting it out there (published, one way or another).
I guess her inspiration works on multiple levels, then–for you to finally take on the form that first voiced your calling, and for both of us to get busy and stay that way. We each only have so many days to reach for our dreams. Thanks for sharing, Lara! Onward!
So I just got the first in the series from our library ebook service! Looking forward to reading it.
I hope you like it as much as I did. They’re just fun, easy reading. :)
I haven’t thought about the literary figures who made me want to write in a while. I’ve been focused most recently on the SFF writers currently publishing and where my work might fit.
If I look back at the writers from my childhood, I’d have to point to the Little House and Nancy Drew authors. And possibly James Herriot, Louis L’Amour, or Agatha Christie. (I read above my grade level and spent most of my childhood with adults and their bookshelves.)
In trying to identify something that they all shared, I’d say they were all storytellers who understood that small details and minor characters mattered just as much as the grand, sweeping themes and heroes (or villains) did.
I’m not sure my own work reflects that. Perhaps this would be a good time to re-read one of the Sackett or Poirot novels and dissect what works and what doesn’t.
Hi Ruth – I’d say those re-reads would be hugely revealing. I’m willing to bet heavily that you’ll find aspects of influence that you hadn’t imagined.
My mom read the Little House books to us aloud, and my sister still has those original hardbacks. Just seeing the covers instantly transports me back to the 60s.
Thanks for enhancing the conversation!
Dear Mr. Faulkner — I just reread “The Bear” — which so greatly captured my imagination numerous decades ago, and now I’ve found that it still does, even more greatly — those sturdy men, young (very) and old, and those thick cold woods of north Mississippi in early winter (hunting season), and their shadows and secrets and the bear — I can’t begin to give proper expression to the richness of emotion all this stirs in me, through your telling. Thank you for being so free to tell the overflowing story!
[And thank you, Vaughn, for warmly prompting my thoughts!]
Ah. See there, Thomas? You’ve already paid it forward. I was stirred and warmed by your earnest and richly delivered letter. Also, I don’t think I’ve read Faulkner since high school. Must remedy that.
Thank you!
Vaughan, thank you for this. We read The Hobbit as the set text in class when I was twelve. I finished it in the first week, and listened in astonishment as so many of the others hated it. I must have read the LOTR at least 3 times in my teenage years. Back in the 70’s, there wasn’t so much available and, like you, it had a profound effect on me.
Hey Cassandra! Pretty much the same thing happened to me. One of the girls in my reading group (Donna, I think she was called), couldn’t get over Tolkien’s use of the term “homely,” as in “the last homely house” in Rivendell. Even after Mr. Raymond explained to her that it was a quirk of British vs. American English, she wouldn’t let it go (to those who may not know, homely has come to mean unattractive to Americans).
Thanks for sharing! Here’s to the profound effect of storytelling!
Vaughan, what a beautiful love letter! I’ve written a few to living authors, as have my kids, because they realized that stories are written by real people, sometimes in their pajamas :)
And the ones who’ve died–don’t laugh–I pray to them to guide me in my own writing journey and pray for them should they need my prayers to become a saint. Often, a particular story will have a specific saint attached to it. For my historical, it’s been St. Maria Goretti. For another, it’s been St. Joan of Arc. Others, Evelyn Ryan, Mary Flannery, Pope St. JPII, Lewis, Chesterton. It’s not something that I do consciously but a saint arrives in the middle of a project.
I am sure JRR Tolkein is immensely pleased with your letter and will be a guiding force for the remainder of your life on earth. How amazing it will be when you can finally meet him in heaven! That’s what I often think about. Heaven! Heaven!
Goodness, Vijaya, I would never laugh about such a thing. In fact, I’m positive that praying to those inspiring figures bestows inspiration and guidance. Not to mention solace and affirmation. Very cool that the proper saint steps up for each project (I can almost imagine them gathered in oversight, and the fitting candidate saying, “I’m on it.”
Such a lovely comment. Thanks, as always, for your kind praise and reassurance.
Vijaya, have you read Adrian Plass’s poem “Heavenly Playground”? A delightful view of (possible) joys to come.
I must admit I’ve never written to an author living or dead, but I do enjoy reading their auto/biographies, seeing how they faced and solved (or endured) the struggles of the writing life.
For example, I was greatly encouraged when reading Agatha Christie’s autobiography to find that she too struggled with the recurring feeling – no less strong for its irrationality – that she couldn’t do it again, she’d somehow forgotten how to write. With every book! And look what she accomplished regardless.
I love reading biographies too. My latest was Rumer Godden’s A Time to Dance, No Time to Weep. Lovely.
And I looked up Adrian’s poem! Delight is right! Thank you. Here’s the link for anybody who’d like to read it too: https://easyrew.com/heavenly-playground/
I often think of how unimaginably beautiful the stories and music will be written in heaven.
I don’t think I’ve read Rumer Godden’s autobiography, though I’ve seen snippets of it in bits attached to her books. I loved Diddakoi as a child and now consider In This House of Brede one of my favourite novels.
Hi, Vaughn:
What a lovely idea, addressing your inspirational mentor directly. I imagine it was rather humbling to put these words down. They and the feelings they express probably became far more real and concrete and specific as you “said them out loud” to someone you admire. It’s got me thinking how I might go about doing the same, and how the embers of inspiration might glow all the more brightly for the effort. It’s also a great way to keep yourself honest, knowing your inspiration is staring over your shoulder–as long as you don’t let him intimidate you.
Thanks for this. Very touching and thought-provoking.
Hey David,
It’s funny, but you’re so right: Although I hadn’t felt self-conscious when the idea struck or during the early going of drafting it, I began to feel the weight of my words. It definitely demanded humility. In fact, I found myself second-guessing things like, should I have said that the two novellas did “absolutely nothing” to satisfy my longing? Is that insulting? Then I sort of figured, well, it’s already out there. And at least I read them, lol.
It’s funny too that only though listing the ways he’s influenced me did I realize the full impact of it. It makes me feel better about having stayed true to that 12 year old kid who vowed to keep the spirit of Tolkien’s storytelling alive. In other words, you’re absolutely right about the process making it real and concrete and specific.
Thanks much for weighing in, for your kind praise and keen insight.
Thanks, Vaughn. I feel much the same as you about LOTR. My granddaughter is an avid reader and I have been trying, so far unsuccessfully, to get her to read the series. You spire me to keep after her until I succeed.
Hey Fred, I’m having the same issue with my nieces and nephews–I think I’ve only been successful with a couple out of ten. But I keep giving the books, darn it! Who knows when they might pick them up? After all, they’re very entertaining to folks of all ages.
Nice to know I’m not alone on this. Thanks for letting me know. And keep fighting the good fight!
Vaughn, that was a beauty of a letter–verily, it glows. In some ways, besides the breathing tribute to a towering figure, it reminds me of how it’s said we should write a letter to our future self to laugh and cry over what we were tormented about now, and to see—one hopes—that it turned out pretty good. Your future self (tomorrow and then on) seems to have turned out pretty good, from my expert crystal ball-gazing.
I would write to Mark Twain, but he is riding on what’s left of Halley’s Comet, having been born in 1835 and dying in 1910, both within days of the comet’s appearance, and mail delivery to comets is sketchy. So I got a tattoo of him on my bicep instead. You might consider a Gandalf tattoo, but I caution you against Gollum.
Tom–the moment I saw the email alerting me to your comment, I began hoping you’d mention Mr. Clemens. You not only delivered on that, you made my day! I love the idea of taking this letter into a sort of past-to-present-to-future me continuum. And I appreciate your future gaze–hoping you have one of the uncorrupted palantíri!
If only we could get Gandalf to actually run for prez, eh? I’d do the tatt, donate, canvas, fund-raise… anything. He’d likely be third party, but I think it’d be worth the risk. The Mordor base certainly isn’t growing at this point. And with debate catch-phrases like: “The dark fire will not avail you.” And, “You shall not pass!” He’s sure to “fly, you fools” straight to front-runner status.
Thanks for making my day. Here’s to the comet-riders, my friend. Cheers!
Hi Vaughn,
I enjoyed your column.
In case you missed it, here is Andy Serkis reading Chapter 5 of The Hobbit:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YSeVHqp2eQA
The link was supposed to expire May 14, but as of my writing this, May 19, it is still active.
Enjoy!
Marcie
Hi Marcie! This is so cool! Who better to read it?
Thanks so much for sharing. You’ve made my day delightfully better. Happy writing to you!
Vaughn, I loved this post so much! It struck such a chord with me because more than five years ago I wrote a blog-post as an open letter to one of my inspirational storytelling heroes.
In my case, it was a movie hero, but not unrelated to your hero. I loved the LOTR movie trilogy, and my open letter was to Sir Peter Jackson, who made those movies and inspired me to become a storyteller too.
Here’s the link to that blog-post if you’re interested (if that’s allowed here; my apologies if it isn’t): https://susanrobertswriter.wordpress.com/2015/01/10/open-letter-peter-jackson/
Wonderful post, Susan. And I can see how the screenwriting of Jackson, Walsh, and Boyens could inspire your life-change. It really was stellar, and I love Sam’s soliloquy (seems so fitting and needed these days, don’t you think?). The only place we don’t agree is on The Hobbit movies. I suppose I was just too tightly embracing the original to ever accept how far the movie scripts ranged from it. But, to each their own.
Thanks for weighing in and for the link. Here’s to staying inspired by the great ones.
Vaughn? I found this tucked under the grass compass on my bookshelf this morning. I think it might be for you?
To: Vaughn Roycroft
Writer Unboxed
Via The Grey Havens, Eriador
Dear Vaughn,
Nothing to forgive — I enjoy letters. Though I suspect orc mischief or some dark wizard’s glamoury when it comes to the internet. I am answering at once, because I am grateful, and because only letters that I do treat so ever get answered, and most of all because your parcel has arrived when having done all my ‘prep’ — ordering all the minutes and resolutions of a long and argumentative College-meeting yesterday (there being no fellow of ill-will, and only 24 persons of the usual human absurdity. I felt rather like an observer at the meeting of Hobbit-notables to advise the Mayor on the precedence and choice of dishes at a Shire-banquet) — I have half an hour to spare before going down hill for a session with the College secretary.
That is the kind of sentence I naturally write….
I do understand your current circumstances: I lost my best friend Christopher under similar circumstances and my gratitude for him powered much of my life. As you know, I named my son after him, a son who often fell ill, though he became quite the proofreader on his sickbed — a skill that came in handy after my passing.
It would be both rude and ungrateful of me to not acknowledge, or thank you, for letters, gifts, and remembrances — all the more so, since your interest has, in fact, been a great comfort to me, and encouragement in the despondency that not unnaturally accompanies the labours of actually publishing a work such as The Lord of the Rings. If you want my opinion, a part of the ‘fascination’ of The Lord of the Rings consists in the vistas of yet more legend and history, to which this work does not contain a full clue. If there is a fault in my wrk which I myself clearly perceive, it is that I have perhaps overweighted Part I too much with attempts to depict the setting and historical background in the course of the narrative. Of course, in actual fact, this background already ‘exists,’ that is, is written and was written first. But I could not get it published, in chronological order, until and unless a public could be found for the mixture of Elvish and Númenórean legend with the Hobbits. If I have an exhortation for you — or for any epic fantasy writers you know — it would be: do not make my mistake. Many have refused to read much further than “concerning hobbits” as well as some of the historical chapters simply due to the fear of what appears to be an encyclopedia entry. As you know, some of my first work appeared in the Oxford English Dictionary (read forward from “penguin” and you’re reading my work), but I suspect my fascination is not shared broadly on that front.
As for longing, my friend Jack has written about Seinsucht and I have a similar feeling when reading of the Norse and many, many other cultures. Smith of Wootton Major likely did nothing to satisfy that longing for more Rings precisely because I was invited by Pantheon to write a preface for a new edition of George MacDonald’s The Golden Key. I never wrote it, but beginning the preface was the start of the composition of Smith. I am not as warm an admirer of George MacDonald as C.S. Lewis was; but I do think well of this story of his. In any case, Smith does not do what The Lord of the Rings does precisely because it operates more as a fairy story of the sort I referenced in On Fairy Stories.
I felt the same thing with C.S. Lewis passed: an axe blow somewhere around the roots. The unpayable debt that I owe to him was not influence but sheer encouragement. He was for long my only audience. But then again, I believe my causes sleep in the mind of Eru and that he will make all things new: in that case, I’ll meet Jack again and, likely, meet you as well. I look forward to that.
I am glad you resolved to become a storyteller reading my work: one of the greatest joys of being a writer is to beget other writers and readers. I had a great difficulty (it took several years) to get my story published, and it is not easy to say who is most surprised at the result: myself or the publishers! But it remains an unfailing delight to me to find my own belief justified: that the ‘fairy-story’ is really an adult genre, and one for which a starving audience exists. I am glad my stories spoke to your true self as well. This reminds me of both MacDonald’s sermon “White Stone” and his story Lilith, from which C.S.L. got his inspiration for The Great Divorce, I think: it is a wonderous thing to become more and more like our ideal self.
Jackson was, I fear, too ‘Disnified’ for my taste: dwarves with dribbling noses, Gandalf as a figure of vulgar fun rather than the Odinic wanderer I think of. Wednesday in Gaiman’s American Gods comes closer, though far more vile: he would have made a good Saruman. Or rather an accurate Saruman. The goodness of both has waned.
I learned Anglo-Saxon at school (also Gothic, but that was an accident quite unconnected with the curriculum though decisive — I discovered in it not only modern historical philology, which appealed to the historical and scientific side, but for the first time the study of a language out of mere love: I mean for the acute aesthetic pleasure derived from a language for its own sake, not only from being useful but free from being the ‘vehicle of a literature’). I came across this admirable language a year or two before 1910 in Joseph Wright’s Primer of the Gothic Language (now replaced by A Grammar of the Gothic Language and probably replaced yet again). It was sold to me by a school-friend interested in missionary work, who had thought it a Bible Society product and had no use for what it was. I was fascinated by Gothic in itself: a beautiful language, which reached the eminence of liturgical use, but failed owing to the tragic history of the Goths to become one of the liturgical languages of the West. At that time I had only the Primer with its small vocabulary, but I had learned from it some of the technique necessary for converting the words of other Germanic languages into Gothic script.
I would encourage you on that front: take my hypothesis and run with it. What if Gothic had become the primary liturgy instead of Latin? How would that have changed the lexicons of medicine, law, and science?
I am quite glad and humbled to have had such an influence on you. And I certainly understand the desire to shirk from power, from large organizations that mechanize society, from those who seek dominion above all else. But keep in mind this one difference: I remain a part of the only institution with any desire to self-correct, take the blame and die, only to be reborn in every generation. That, I think, is the opposite of what you think of when you use the word “institution.” As with my friend Jack, I’ll remind you too that a Deist is someone who understands efficient causality, but does not yet understand contingency. I’m sure you’ll get there in time. Keep following Treebeard into the forest. Keep to the old roads. Keep to your studies. And quaintness isn’t always bad! I’ll remind you that “quaint” comes from the Old French cointe, from Latin cognitus ‘ascertained’, past participle of cognoscere . The original sense was ‘wise, clever’, also ‘ingenious, cunningly devised’, hence ‘out of the ordinary’ and the current sense (late 18th century). In that regard, I find it quite wise to seek honor and duty, friendship and loyalty, and a soul-mate.
Keep after that vocation of yours and keep seeking the Sehnsucht behind all of those desires: they don’t have their source in me, my work is merely a proximate good, a subcreation. Move further up, further in, as Jack might have said. You’ll find readers (indeed you have). You’ll find fans, yet more. And you’ll find those one day with whom you can exchange letters across the ether as you and I have done. You’re doing great work, Vaughn, even if no one notices for now — even if money and fame and power and pleasure and honor do not come from it. As you’ve shown here, that’s not why you do it anyways.
See you in the high country. And you are most welcome.
John
___
Hope that makes some sense to you? — Lancelot
Dear John,
I was, at first, surprised to receive your response, and I remain overwhelmed; although it was through the absorption of the content of your letter that I lost the former and then gained the latter reaction.
It was in your mention of Sehnsucht that I recognized not just the unattainable in the longing I mention, but my own misapprehension of it. I feel, at times, a loneliness in my seeking–perhaps even a sort of Fernweh. You have the right of it (and through you, Jack–thank him for me) in extolling me to “move further up, further in.” There is light ahead, and comfort to be found in any progress made toward it. And my progress can’t be denied.
In Bennett’s advancement of Wright’s work in the Gothic tongue, he identified the verb: biskeinan–“to shine upon.” Though it describes illumination, it felt somehow lacking in describing your message here. I’d almost forgotten seeing once that it was you who reconstructed, blaiks: an adjective translatable to shining, as in “a shining example.” Or better still, as in “a shining star”–both guiding and illuminating.
How appropriate that it’s you who provided it.
Thanks again. You’ve filled my heart and banished that loneliness from my longing. My anticipation for our meeting has only grown.
Vaughn
_____
P.S.
Lancelot, it makes perfect sense. Thank YOU! You’re the best–V
Vaughn,
As class must soon begin, I must be, unfortunately, all too brief. First, the quest from the alone to the Alone is one we all must take, for that is the very feeling of having sought out the uniqueness in your own soul, what you mentioned in your first. There is loneliness, which is the feeling one might get in a crowd of being exiled or unwelcome. Then there’s being alone, one’s self. And the unique path you will take is not the path than any other can. Frodo and Merry came to Mordor by different roads, but came they both.
In that way, we must never confuse wanderlust with wonderlust: for not all who wander are lost. Some wander with intent and Sehnsucht itself is the intent in this case. Twelve days spent Gilgamesh in the dark heart of the earth before the dawn broke clean and clear. Wander he did beneath the mountain, but he wasn’t aimless. Wonder guided him.
The light of Ilúvatar, our most beloved star, shines in all who bear it. And the moon does indeed reflect the light of the sun. Polish thy mirror and you will do as I have done.
Take heart, take care. Sleep well, wake brave, and keep the inkwell full.
John